The Grave
by Silver Storm Dragon
Summary: eternity knows him, and it knows what we've done... A war widow mourns


* The grave that they dug him had flowers  
Gathered from the hillsides in bright summer colours  
The brown earth bleached white at the edge of his gravestone  
He's gone *  
  
One of many war widows sat by her husband's grave. Tears were tumbling, but she didn't bother to catch them. Crying had become a very matter of fact thing. A thing that had to be done. A thing that was done every waking moment. Because she missed him.  
But if crying stopped being matter of fact, then she would lose herself in her misery, and do something she would regret.   
Or something she should regret, but didn't.  
  
* When the wars of our nation did beckon   
A man, barely 20, did answer the call  
Proud of the trust that he placed in our nation  
He's gone *  
  
His grave was far away from the others. His was modest, but powerful. A simple stone, engraved with a pentacle. The inscription read   
'The Boy Who Lived  
~  
The Man Who Died  
  
Harold James Potter  
  
War Hero  
Vanquisher of Voldemort'  
Underneath this, some wonderful person had carved "HP (heart) HG 4EVA"-this had a ring around it. Crude, but it made her smile.  
She traced the words. He hadn't had enough time. 20 was not the age to die. It was not the right age.  
  
* But eternity knows him, and it knows what we've done *  
  
She looked at the other graves. They had died. For her. They had died for her. And for every other woman, man, child, witch, wizard, animal-they had died for everything Voldemort had believed in destroying.  
She wondered if it was fair. She had sentenced him to this death. What had she done? What had the world done?  
  
* And the rain fell like pearls on the leaves of the flowers  
Leaving brown muddy clay where the earth had been dry  
And deep in the trench he waited for hours  
As he held to his rifle and prayed not to die *  
  
They had given her his broken wand. It had been inscribed with "RIFLE", and she knew why. REALLY I FELL LOVE EVERMORE. When he had tried to tell her that he loved her for the first time, the words had come out-"Really...I....fell....love....everymore...yeah."   
He had known she would be given the wand in the event of anything.   
The warfare had been vicious, taking place across otherwise idyllic fields. The place had been kept secret-it would not do to have wailing war brides putting off the troops, they had said.  
She knew it was because if she had seen him then she wouldn't have let him go. Just like every other war bride.  
  
* But the silence of night was shattered by fire  
As guns and grenades blasted sharp through the air  
And one bafter another, his comrades were slaughtered  
In a morgue of marines alone standing there *  
  
She had been one of many. So many had stood. Amongst them her best friend, and they had cried together for hours. For every war widow, crying was now a necessity. Most men had left their mark in the form of a tatoo or something trivial.  
Harry had left his mark in her stomach, and in 8 more weeks, his mark would enter the world. She ran her fingers over the child, as she had when she had been told he died.   
  
* He crouched ever lower, ever lower with fear  
"They can't let me die, they can't let me die here  
I'll cover myself with the mud and the earth  
I'll cover myself, I know I'm not brave  
The earth, the earth, the earth is my grave." *  
  
She had known how brave he would've been. How he would've fought for hours. How he would've done anything to stop the killing.   
And she knew how he had known it was the end as Voldemort had fallen, as the opposing troops had fallen easily. The celebrations had gone on for hours as they boy who lived became the man who saved, and finally, as she watched, in panic, the news, as she waited, finally became the man who died.  
  
* The grave that they dug him had flowers  
Gathered from the hillsides in bright summer colours  
The brown earth bleached white at the edge of his gravestone *  
  
A small hand closed in her's. She looked down at the bushy-haired girl, with her large teeth and big, glittering green eyes behind her thick framed glasses.  
"Who was my Daddy?" She had been asking that a lot recently. Filre had always wanted to know, but her mother had simply wiped a tear away, and murmered the eternal parental excuse;  
"You'll see."  
Filre sat by the grave. "Can I lay some flowers down?"  
She nodded wordlessly.  
"Harold...James...Potter...our last name."  
"Harry." Hermione said simply.  
Filre traced the name. "Vanquisher of Voldemort...He saved us."  
Hermione nodded. "He did. He did that quite a few times." Hermione dropped down, sitting by the grave. She too traced the words.  
Filre looked at her mother. "Did he know about me?"  
"I never told him, but I think he knew. One of his possessions they gave me was this." She showed her daughter a small block, with letters and symbols inscribed on it. "Take it, it's your's. I never knew he could carve, you know."  
Filre pressed the heart on the box, and a slow, deliberate, meaningful, passsionate voice whispered "I Love You. You, my child. You, my wife." A gunshot sounded. Suddenly, a different voice-"Come on Potter, time to go over! He's waiting for you-apparate there now!"  
"Oh...Harry..." Hermione whispered, more tears.  
"Promise me you'll give this to my wife, yeah? And my kid."  
"I didn't even know she was pregnant!"  
"Neither did I. But she is. And I love them."  
"You'll come out Potter, don't know why you're worried..."  
"Keep that faith, OK? But...just in case, you know. I LOVE YOU, HERMIONE! I LOVE YOU, O DAUGHTER OR SON!"  
The box became silent, and Filre clambered into her mother's arms. "He knew."  
"He always knew."  
  
* He's gone *  
  
-finis-  
  
The song is The Grave by Don McLean. The characters aside from Filre (pronounced Fill-Ray) belong to JK Rowling.   
Anyone who knows why Filre is called Filre gets a biscuit. 


End file.
